


whisper tales of gore

by duskendales



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: AU, F/M, Madness, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-12 13:11:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskendales/pseuds/duskendales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rise and fall of Loki Laufeyson. A tragedy in two acts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: "Loki wins, but continues to descend into madness." The second part of the fic is... on the way.

_for every sun ascending  
a lonesome moon will grow_

_._

_._

_.  
  
._   
  


In the end, he tricked them all.

  
  


He thinks himself a good ruler; a humble, merciful one. He brought peace. He took away the pain. There are no weapons anymore, there are no corrupted governments, no wars. Under his rule the Earth is starting to clean itself, day by day becoming a better place. And it's all his doing.

  
  


He still despises New York, or what remains of it. There are bad memories ghosting around this city and it unnerves him just to think of them. He builds his palace in the north, close to the ocean (he wants to settle in Norway, the way it has always been, but he can't leave just yet, there is still too much to fix). It's beautiful – an exquisite piece of art: all marble and hard stone, with flecks of green and silver. There is a huge garden at the back, shielded from the outside world, filled with blossoming summer flowers. He treats it with utmost care, loving the strong scents and vivid colors that sometimes are the only cure to soothe his tired mind.

  
  
-  
  
  


He seeks out the Avengers, one by one. His people are very resourceful at the task, able to use every electronic device, every eye, every _thought_ even to locate them, then bring them before Loki's throne, pushing them to their knees. ( _In the end, you will always kneel._ )

  
  


He's merciful, still, but he lets the world see the executions, lets Tony Stark's head roll into the streets and to the feet of the crowd. _(Look at your villains, look at what happened to them. You're safe now.)_

  
  


He doesn't wear a crown, the horns on his head enough of a power display, his army, his _people_ are what makes him king. _I am the revival_ , he says, _I am the resurrection._ And they bow to him, throwing flowers at his feet.  
  
  
-  
  
  
Thor visits him, and the sight of his once-brother makes Loki almost choke with the emotions he thought he'd long forgotten. He inclines his head and allows a small smile to flicker on his lips.

  
  


The words he hears make him almost spit out, something resembling poison filling his mouth.

  
  


"What have you done, brother?" And there is despair and disapproval in Thor's voice, and something more, all too familiar but he doesn't want to acknowledge it, (it is disappointment). But Loki is king now, and he will cower no more.

  
  


"I have brought peace onto this planet, Thor. I saved billions of innocent lives. What do you find wrong in that?"

  
  


"It was not their will to be ruled, not by you," the god says. He sounds almost apologetic; he cannot deny the truth, cannot deny that the Earth is indeed well, but there is still the matter of his wretched morality, the one that made Thor so loved everywhere he set foot and the one that made his failure. "Did you forget the Chitauri? The havoc they'd caused, the people they'd slayed? All in the name of your power--"

  
  


"I remember," Loki says calmly, his green eyes shining like two suns, burning and dangerous, "that is why I destroyed them. They will never pose a threat to anyone, you have my word."

  
  


Thor knows he will not succeed at this conversation, words never being his strongest suit. He needs Loki to see sense desperately, to leave Thor's beloved planet (he grew so protective of it over the past years), but most of all, he needs to have his little brother back home.

  
  


But he knows it's a failure, as he looks into those two burning orbs of green, full of authority and defiance. There is no use in trying anymore. (It breaks Thor apart.)

  
  


"Come back to us," he says one last time in a small voice, "our father is willing to forgive you all, if only you came back."

  
  


Loki's fingers dig into the armrests of his throne. There is something cold slithering at the base of his neck.

  
  


"I have no father."

  
  


_(I killed him.)_  
  
  
-  
  
  
He looks at his people from the screen of every electronic device on the planet, flashes of green and red behind him. They can see Hulk destroying buildings in the center of Washington, smashing cars and throwing them in the direction of frightened citizens. There is blood splattering the camera like rain, bits and pieces of metal thrown around and there is smoke, thick and black, the promise of fire. In a flash the image transforms into Captain America's cruel smile, as he holds a woman hostage and threatens to cut her throat with a sharp blade he keeps at her neck. She is crying, mouth open in a soundless scream, while her hands uselessly claw at his in the hope of being released; but then he presses the knife deeper into her throat and there is blood, and it is all red again.

  
  


Loki stares straight ahead, something akin to sadness glittering in his eyes.

  
  


"How misleading trust can be," he says softly. "Those people, those you called your heroes mere years ago, have shown you just now their true identity. They are but monstrous creatures, relishing in chaos and destruction. But I will allow it no more."

  
  


He imagines cowering families in their destroyed homes, children crying from hunger and cold, people in filthy hospitals crawling in pain, and there is a bile rising in his throat and a sudden tingling behind his eyelids. They are all his people now, and he has to make it right this time. "You are safe now."  
  
  
-  
  
  
He is pleasantly surprised when they bring her to the throne room, and licks his thin lips in anticipation. It's been two years since the avenger search has started and they had them, all but one.

  
  


Her hair is red and curly, just as he remembered, but it's a tad bit longer and wild, full lips bitten and bloody, scratches and cuts all over her face. She didn't go without a fight, he notices, and there are four men escorting her even though she's cuffed and seemingly powerless. Green eyes find their twin ones and he sees no fear there, just some insufferable sureness, and he knows then that the time on the run has not broken her, (yet).

  
  


"After all this time, the final piece of the puzzle," he says silkily, his lips curling into a smile that doesn't feel quite right. "I've been waiting impatiently for you, Natalia."

  
  


She flinches, her birth name foreign in her ears. She's been Natasha Romanoff for longer than she can remember, the life of Natalia Romanova hidden deep, burned from her memory with The Fire, all of it long forgotten.

  
  


"What would you have me do with you?" He is open for entertainment, his body sore from too much magic used too abruptly; he needs a distraction and the poor attempts at persuasion from the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent or pitiful acts of resistance might prove to be just what he needs to relieve the tension. But she surprises him, yet again.

  
  


"I can be useful to you", she says casually and he observes a drop of blood falling from her split lip, down her chin, into the curve of her neck, leaving a red streak from its path.

  
  


"And how would that be?"

  
  


"Regimes fall everyday-"

  
  


„-and you tend not to weep over that, yes, I remember our little conversation quite well, _Agent Romanoff_ ," he tells her impatiently. He looks her up and down, from her torn and used clothing to her beaten face. It makes him sad, almost. "My question being, what exactly do you think you could offer that would be of any interest to me?"

  
  


She contemplates the question for a while, brow furrowing just slightly. "You know of my fighting skills and of my espionage training--"

  
  


"That is indeed quite delightful, but I don't need such qualities.  There are no threats from which I would require protection, and if they were ever to surface I have an army, a faithful one, w hich you could never be a part of."

  
  


Natasha seems at a loss for a moment; she stills and licks another drop of blood that's formed on her lip. The sight makes Loki soften his gaze, relax his posture. There is no need for violence; she poses no threat any longer.

  
  


"You can go," he tells the guards, and as they leave he rises from the throne. He walks towards his prisoner, with his hands clasped behind his back. "Would you like to see my garden, Natalia?"

  
  


She furrows her brow again, confusion for once clearly written across her face. She follows him obediently, staggering on her weary legs through the high corridors; they're exquisite, intimidating and dreadfully cold. They pass numerous pairs of guards and she realizes bitterly that escaping will never be an option (but there are always other ways of getting out, ways she has been more than properly trained for). He doesn't look back to see if she's following, so damn sure of himself it drives her mad. She cannot allow herself to let her facade slip, so she keeps a blank expression on her face, trying to freeze her heart into a stone.

  
  


As they enter the garden the scent nearly knocks her from her feet, the mixture so rich she finds it suffocating. The plants are wild, growing high and twirling with one another like snakes (from the corner of her eye she thinks she sees them move and it sends shivers down her spine.)

  
  


The whole place is pulsing with magic.

  
  


He leads her deep into the core of the garden, through narrow paths lined with thorny hedges. They cut her sometimes, but it's nothing in comparison to what she's been through in the past few days when they were transporting her to Loki's palace. Scared of her or not, his people were not merciful or very humane.

  
  


He stops by the roses, and she can't help but admire the flowers. They are bigger than any she's ever seen, fully blossomed and of vivid colors. There is a particularly magnificent bush with milky white roses that seem to glow in the moonlight. She feels the urge to bend down and smell them, touch them, to make sure it's not another trick of his.

  
  


Loki turns around and his features are softer, almost serene; Natasha marvels at the sight of his face against the flowers, nearly translucent skin glinting in the pale light of the evening, and his eyes, those two pools of green are boring into hers, transfixing her to the spot. He smiles, and it is everything but pleasant, and for the first time since her arrival she can taste fear on her tongue.

  
  


"Do you find them beautiful?" he asks, and she nods her head, too scared that her voice might betray her. "You remind me of them".

  
  


Her eyes widen as he comes closer; so close, she can feel his cold breath on her face. Her cuffed hands dangle awkwardly between them but he pays them no mind.

  
  


"I think you would make a beautiful rose." He puts his hand on her cheek in a gentle caress, and she closes her eyes, only to open them all of the sudden as shocking warmth starts seeping from his fingers into her body. The world starts spinning and Natasha lets out a gasping breath, but no sound is heard.

  
  


Loki looks down at the red rose that's appeared before his feet and bends down to caress its petals. They are soft as silk and they smell of blood.  
  
  
-  
  
  
He finds no peace at night, nightmares wracking his mind every time he falls asleep. He doesn't dream of pain anymore (Chitauri no longer hold a grudge over him, he slayed every single one of them, his hands sometimes still bloody and too hot) or his family (he has no family now, so he supposes it's a natural course of action).

  
  


Instead, in his dreams he loses his voice. He tries to pry his mouth open but it stays shut, even though there are no binds, no sews that would hold it close (and then he remembers that one time Odin punished him, he remembers the taste of his own blood and flesh as he stood in the middle of the city with his mouth sewn shut, the thread piercing his lips over and over again, never allowing them to heal properly).

  
  


Some nights he dreams of his people, their faces full of hate and disgust as they look at him, fingers tingling to rip his heart apart; other times he watches them being killed, one by one, and he can do nothing to stop it. He sees destruction and death, and he sees children, their little fists banging on their tormentors' hands as they snatch them away from their homes, into other, cruel words where they would never find peace or acceptance.

  
  


He wakes dripping with sweat, shivers running through his body. It takes him a while to regain his composure and prepare himself for the day. He can never forget.  
  
  
-  
  
  
The next time he visits the garden he finds Natasha standing by the bushes, her eyes blazing with fury.

  
  


It is a curious sight, for he has never intended for her to go back to her human form. Annoyance builds inside him like fire as he takes in her ragged appearance. She is still wearing the green dress they had taken her in, but it is now battered and torn, thorns and dirt covering the fabric's surface. There are leaves in her hair, her once flawless skin soiled with dirt. Looking down at her feet, he finds himself surprised yet again – for there are vines coiling around her ankles, binding her to the rose bush. It is then that he finally realizes what exactly has happened.

  
  


"Let me go," she spits, her previous facade having vanished completely. She was prepared for many things, situations that required intrigue, deception, deceit, seduction even, but she was never trained to deal with magic and it frightened her more than anything has ever had. The perspective of possibly spending the rest of her life as an immobile rose made her almost lose her mind, as did the realization that Loki is not a man easily persuaded.

  
  


He stares at her silently with almost scientific interest, his eyes dancing from her face to her ankles surrounded by rose vines. She must have somehow bent the magic he gave her to her will, using the rose's life force to walk around the curse he has cast. He is almost impressed, although she is not even aware of her achievement - it was her rage that was truly responsible for the reclaiming of her form.

  
  


"Am I not even worthy of a proper cell?" she seethes, trying to move closer to him. It's not possible though, the vines short and coiled so tightly that the rose thorns cut through her skin. She makes a choking sound at her futile attempts at moving her feet, unwanted tears welling behind her eyelids _(but she will not cry, never let him see her weak and broken)_.

  
  


"I'd thought you might like it better here," he says innocently, taking a small step towards her. She grits her teeth, glassy green eyes blazing like wildfire. He can almost taste her anger on his tongue and it thrills him, heart quickening from sudden excitement.

  
  


"Why don't you kill me while you're at it? What happened to your snotty promises of Barton killing me in your most perverse--"

  
  


He huffs with annoyance and shakes his head, "I would gladly keep my promise, had your dear friend not been dead by now, therefore ruining all the fun."

  
  


It's like a stab to her chest. Although her heart screams that he is lying, that Barton cannot be dead, there is a quiet voice in the back of her mind that believes him. Her face falls. For a moment she almost forgets how to breathe.

  
  


Loki watches her intently. She's let her guard down, quit pretending as soon as she's found there is no use for it anymore, and now, as her face consorts with anguish, he can finally fully celebrate his victory; how easy it was to get rid of his mighty foes, how easy it was to take the Earth for his own.

  
  


And how easily the Black Widow is breaking to pieces in his hands.

  
  


He leaves as she stumbles to the ground, thorns cutting into her knees, ripping their soft skin to shreds.  
  
  
-  
  
  
The cellar is cold and smells of mold, the sound of water dripping from the ceiling being all that echoes along the walls. It fairly reminds Loki of Asgardian prison and in his crooked sense of humor he really appreciates the irony. He feels a slight tingling when he passes the magic barrier at the end of the corridor, just by the entrance of the cell. A cell made for something bigger than a human.

  
  


He doesn't really like going in there.

  
  


For such a large cell, the man lying in the corner seems almost like a child, especially being almost completely covered with rags, the only thing that's visible beneath them is his face. It's not easily recognizable either, for he wears a bushy beard and long, greasy hair that covers most of his forehead. There is a woman too, she sits with her back against the wall, cradling the man's head in her lap. When she spots Loki she tenses immediately, pulling the man closer to her body.

  
  


"How are you faring, doctor Banner?" Loki asks conversationally, taking a good look at the dirty floor of the prison and wrinkling his nose in distaste.

  
  


The man looks at him with an unfocused gaze and clears his throat. "I've been better."

  
  


Loki then turns to the woman and with a sharp tilt of his head motions her to leave. She is trembling all the time, that Darcy Lewis, or at least that what's left of her, (it's not that much anymore). She is stick-thin, with large purple bruises under her eyes, and long matted hair that reaches just below her waist. With utmost care she lifts Banner's head from her lap and places it on the floor. Before getting up she traces her fingers along his hairy cheek and whispers sweet nothings in that thin and hoarse voice of hers, and Loki rolls his eyes in impatience. Only when she finally leaves, he moves closer to the messy pile of blankets that is his prisoner and crouches by his side.

  
  


"Have you figured it out, yet?" he asks, wondering once again how this pitiful, blind creature could have caused him so much trouble.

  
  


"I've told you already, I don't know," Banner rasps, his eyes closing in distress. "I have tried it many times before, but he just... won't allow it."

  
  


Loki grits his teeth, his previous mild annoyance turning into cold rage. "Maybe I should work on the matter with Miss Lewis? Poor girl is wasting herself in those dungeons with your pathetic self. At least there could be some use of her – mayhaps what works on her will work on you?"

  
  


Banner's eyes flow open and for a moment Loki can see terror in them. That is good, he knows that fear can be very productive.

  
  


"You have to understand," the man says, but it is now anger that can be heard in his voice "if I knew how to kill myself, I would have already done that. You think I enjoy lying here in this goddamned cellar? Or watching as you turn this poor girl into a shell of a person? Or if I like listening how you murder my friends, how you poison innocent people's minds?"

  
  


Loki stands up, his face an image of tranquility (except for his eyes which are blazing with cold, unsheathed fire).

  
  


"I've been good to you, Doctor. I've been keeping you safe. Taking care of your beloved girl. Protecting people from your monstrous side. And this is how you repay me?" He closes his eyes, terrible sadness overcoming him for a moment. _(Some people are so ungrateful, so unworthy of his kindness.)_

  
  


"I give you one more week," he says at last. "If you disappoint me once more, I shall use the Tesseract and the people who die in the process will lay on your conscience. It saddens me greatly, but if there is no other way, then so be it. After all, there will always be sacrifices for the greater cause."

  
  


Banner seems speechless for a moment. "You can't do this! There must be another way, there must be a way to restrain its power-"

  
  


"Oh, I can only presume it will require a great deal of it to exterminate such a stubborn creature as yourself."

  
  


"You can't just wipe out an entire city!" Banner chokes out.

  
  


Loki's lips curl into a thin smile. "I can. And I will."  
  
  
-  
  
  
He is drained by the time he comes back from the dungeons and his feet on their own accord lead him to the garden.

  
  


The potential damage of what he's just promised sinks into him slowly, sudden anxiety overtaking his mind. _It wasn't protecting, it wasn't what he's promised his people._ He hears whispers in his head, frantic voices of reason, and of blind rage. He feels as if he's being torn apart, his mind consisting of different parts – ones that crave bloodshed and pain for those who oppose him, and ones that want him to be the merciful leader, to bring peace and order. He is losing his grip on who the real Loki is.

  
  


The scent of roses hits his nostrils and he takes a deep, steadying breath. It always calms him, his garden, it makes him feel like he's finally home.

  
  


As he turns, a bright flash of red catches his eye and his irritation returns, along with a shrill malicious voice in his ear. Natasha stands nearby in all her battered glory, red locks billowing in the night wind. She looks as if she wants to say something, but the mere look at Loki's face stops her in her tracks.

  
  


"If you anger me again, I swear I will kill you," he hisses, then drops unceremoniously on the grass, his back against a tree trunk. He closes his eyes, and takes another deep breath.

  
  


Natasha regards him from afar, notices the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and the violet circles beneath his eyes. He looks unhealthy, if not straightforward sick and she suddenly feels a desperate urge to know _why_.

  
  


"What's happened?" Her curiosity wins with good sense and she asks the question, not really minding the consequences anymore. _(In truth, she no longer has anything to lose.)_

  
  


His eyes shoot open and he sneers at her in the most loathsome way he can. "And why would I tell you that?"

  
  


She shrugs. "I suppose I'm just curious. You know, sitting here all day, doing nothing."

  
  


"I have just seen your friend, the Hulk," he says at last. "He refuses to help me... exterminate him."

  
  


Natasha feels the urge to laugh in his face, but has enough common sense to remain passive. Instead she cocks her head to the side and explains: "You can't kill a hulk. It's impossible. Bruce tried, trust me."

  
  


He knows it's foolish to as much as listen to her misguiding words, but indulges her nevertheless. "What would you have me do with him then? I can't keep him locked up all the time, it's inhumane."

  
  


The woman looks at him disbelievingly. "I don't think just letting him out would be an option for you, would it? No, I didn't think so." She sighs. "You see, this is the only option I can think of right now. He doesn't even do _those things_ on his own accord. It's all the other guy's job."

  
  


"But they're both the same person. If I don't punish him, the other part of him will be left unpunished too. And such things cannot happen. There must be justice." He closes his eyes to silence the voices that are pounding in his ears. It's been getting worse with each day and he worries if his dreams will be plagued by them too.

  
  


"Well... yes, but you can't punish an innocent for crimes he didn't commit. What is happening to you?" She sees him draw a hollow breath, but then a hiss escapes his lips. Natasha drops to her knees by his side and grabs his hand, trying to stop his fingers from clawing at themselves. He is tense and gasping as if there was no air in his lungs, and she fears he might collapse at any moment.

  
  


With one hand still grasping his, she draws out the other and slaps him lightly on the cheek. "Hey, look at me. Here, come on. Open your eyes. Loki--," and he does, green meeting green once more. He looks weak and crushingly tired, but when he looks at her, she recognizes something resembling admiration in his eyes and it feels like a blow to the head. He squeezes her hand that is still in his and gently moves it into her lap.

  
  


"Thank you," he says, voice a bit strained. "I should probably just get some sleep."

  
  


He gets up and dusts his clothes, then with a curt nod in her direction stalks back to the palace, his lean form disappearing from her view in no time.

  
  


Frantic thoughts are swimming through her head; she refuses to believe that out of all the possible situations, she has found herself in the easiest of them all, and she hasn't even realized that. How could she have been so blind? She should have noticed how lonely her captor was, noticed how everything he did was to earn approval and respect. She's paid too much attention to things beyond her reach, like magic or being outnumbered, allowing herself to lose hope. And in the process of analyzing her situation she has overlooked the most important factor – that, magic or not, Loki was still just a man.

  
  


With men she could deal with, and she would always win.

 


	2. Act II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to E. Edwin for being a wonderful beta and making this thing readable; and thank you to everyone who commented or left kudos - you're all amazing (:  
> You may have noticed that the tags have slightly changed, which means you'll see some more familiar Marvel faces as the story goes by. Hope you enjoy.

 

 

 

_thinking of your sins i die  
thinking how you'd let them touch you  
how you'd never realise  
that i'm ripped and hang forsaken  
knowing never will i rise  
again_

 

.

 

.

 

 

[She is a master assassin.

 

She is also a woman,

 

(and that's what makes her stronger).]

 

 

-

 

 

“It's so boring in here,” she says, with her eyes half-lidded and lips pursed. But she is cautious, never crossing the border between what is obvious and what is not. It's like chess playing, or like swimming too far into the sea – even though Natasha doesn't see the land anymore, when she dives she can still touch the ground.

 

Loki is far from stupid, and Natasha is aware of that too, so she threads her lies gently, (the Black Widow and her web), and dances around him with just the right amount of hatred, interest, and something else. (Sometimes it's boredom, sometimes it's fondness, other times just lust.)

 

“Do you expect me to bring you a pet?” he asks from his spot against the tree trunk, not very far from the roses. He is paler, bonier, his eyes more sunken and breath more labored, and Natasha secretly rejoices in the image.

 

She shakes her head, red hair bouncing around her face like flames. “I don't really like dogs.”

 

“I was thinking more about a human.”

 

“A what?” She stares at him disbelievingly, all wide eyes and pink lips slightly open. Loki looks a bit abashed for a moment, (it's because of the smell, he knows that, and because of the heat – the summers on Earth are practically insufferable), but then he smirks, his lips bloodlessly white.

 

“A _human_ , Natalia. I'm sure you've heard of those. You could keep it on a leash, or tied to this tree that I'm sitting by, and maybe it could even talk back to you.”

 

“You just love reminding me why I hate you so much, don't you.” And she really does; she hates him more than ever.

 

He doesn't see that though. “I wouldn't refuse my offer, if I were you. I bet your own company must be driving you mad already, Valhalla knows that I myself can hardly take it much longer.”

 

She starts counting the days, (every evening she adds another stone to the pile, and the pile grows into a little mountain surrounded by white roses and fallen leaves;

 

the vines grow too.)

 

 

-

 

 

He is always tired when she sees him. He doesn't seem to get enough sleep, or his magic exhausts him notoriously, or his duties (the whole world that rests on his shoulders) crush him and break his bones.

 

He is polite enough though, most of the time anyway, and as polite as he can be; sometimes he offers her fruit, or books (she never expects him to, and it throws her off, _every single time_ ); and one day he brings her a dress.

 

“Those green tatters were just painful for my eyes,” he explains after throwing the garment at her. It's long and white, and seemingly perfectly fitting.

 

I hate you, she thinks. “Thank you,” and she smiles, just a tiny little bit, but he catches it anyway, and she knows that he does.

 

“Wear it tonight.”

 

It's not even an order anymore.

 

 

-

 

 

The dinner is _so_ not something she would expect.

 

She feels uncomfortable in an elegant dress after so many days spent crawling in the dirt, and she's suddenly also aware of how long her hair has grown, (she hates it long – it's impractical, and gets tangled during the fight). The dining room is large, and golden, and only the two of them are there, and this is another thing that makes her want to stab herself with a butter knife.

 

The girl who's helped her dress and clean up was mute, and too young to be a servant, an observation Natasha made very early in the evening. None of her polite questions were even acknowledged, and the feeling of isolation has deepened significantly. The girl treated her like a doll. Natasha felt like crying.

 

“Thank you for joining me tonight.” His eyes dance around the room unfocused. She can hear his breathing from the other side of the table. “You look lovely.” Another breath. “It is a special occasion indeed.”

 

She lifts a glass of wine to her lips and takes a long sip. The wine is good – dry, just the way she likes it. It leaves a burning trail down her throat and paints her lips red. “What's the occasion?”

 

“It's been three years since I have conquered this planet. Three great years of change and growth. The whole world is celebrating. Would you like to see?”

 

His smile is all teeth and loud breath, and even though it's cool in the room she can see drops of sweat on his forehead. She wants to puke, so she smiles. “I think I'll pass.” She picks up a fork. “I'd rather eat, it really smells delicious.”

 

They eat in silence – or rather _she_ eats, and Loki just moves food around the plate, his gaze still mostly unfocused. The only thing he seems to tolerate is wine, and he empties glass after glass in haste. Sometimes he looks at Natasha and his eyes follow her movements for a while ( _hand on the fork, moving to her mouth, hand on the glass, knife cutting the meat, repeat_ ).

 

It's probably an eternity she spends there, chewing and cutting, and trying to keep herself from vomiting. She tries to get herself drunk, but her body on its own accord switches to mission mode and remains perfectly alert, coiled and ready to attack. She knows it's not yet the time, her web is not woven thickly enough to catch her prey. Natasha needs patience and she needs calmness, but her body is burning on the inside and urging her to act as if her life is dripping between her fingers.

 

She feels the vines around her ankles swirling under the table – they are coiled so tightly the thorns prick deep into her skin and she almost hears blood dripping onto the marble floor.

 

She needs her time.

 

 

-

 

 

“I hate you.” It's her prayer at night, it's what she whispers when she lies curled on the ground with her feet bloody and eyes wet.

 

“I will kill you,” she promises, “I will.”

 

 

-

 

 

Whether she likes it or not, he still visits her even in the early autumn, and more often than not he comes bearing gifts. The leaves rustle beneath his feet when he walks, (she's learned to recognize the sound, or the way he bends his legs when he sits under the tree, or the way his lips curl when he's in a good mood). She never forgets to thank, to let himknow she appreciates the effort, and the web grows thicker and tighter along with every new stone she adds to her pile.

 

He seems to enjoy her company somehow, spending his every free evening in the garden surrounded by the smell of roses and her. He is snappish or even hostile, but most times he's just quiet, lost in thought leaning back against the tree with his eyes closed, listening to the earth. She thinks it's the way she likes him best.

 

 

 

-

 

 

When he comes to the garden and falls limply to the ground, this time she doesn't hesitate. She threads her fingers with his and pushes his arms apart, and even though it's now her hands he digs his nails into, she doesn't let go. She looks into his eyes – so blank and dull, unmoving – and white lips trembling, and she tries her best to pull herself together.

 

Again, it's his name that snaps him out, but he's tired, so very tired, and he closes his eyes, stilling completely beneath Natasha. For a second she thinks he's gone, and panic floods her senses. She shakes him, eyes burning and his name on her lips.

 

He wakes and tries to speak, but it's no use.

 

“Don't you ever do this to me,” she cries, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the white silk. “I almost thought—”

 

“What?” His voice is hoarse, like he hasn't used it in a long time.

 

“I thought you died.” The horror on her face is real, and he closes his mouth with no words to speak. He realizes she's still holding his hands in hers, but this time he doesn't let go.

 

“Don't scare me like that,” she whispers.

 

I _will be the one to kill you,_ but she doesn't say that out loud.

 

 

-

 

 

The vines are long enough for her to walk easily around the garden, so she spends hours wandering, breathing the magic in. Somehow it makes her stronger, makes her wounds heal quicker. She is amazed by the things she sees there, but she doesn't fear them anymore. It's as if her insides have been poured out of her, leaving only hatred to fill the empty space.

 

Natasha remembers Clint – rarely, very rarely, because it hurts like a blade in the chest – she remembers his crooked smile and midnight talks, and the little wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. Sometimes, she even thinks about Matt, and her heart soars with longing. Is he alive? Is he well? Does he remember? (Because God knows she wishes she didn't.)

 

She breathes the magic in and thinks about S.H.I.E.L.D. and the agents, about Bruce and Steve, and Tony – she's seen them die, (at least she has thought so). She almost feels Bruce's presence hovering around like a ghost; he may be underground or high above, but she's sure he's somewhere close. It comforts her in a strange way.

 

 

-

 

 

All the leaves have fallen, and she knows it's time.

 

She leaves the garden, its cool wind and sweetly smelling magic, and steps inside the palace.

 

Her bare feet are silent against the marble, the only sound that can be heard is made by the vines that drag behind her like a green train. She doesn't really care if she's seen anyway – the palace staff treat her like a doll, if not simply ignore her presence. She's far from threatening, unarmed and bound by a thorny leash, their master's pet.

 

(It's the roses, the garden who's taught her how to find by feeling, how to smell the ghosts and breathe magic); finally she stands by the heavy doors and her hand doesn't even tremble on the handle.

 

 

-

 

 

It's quite peculiar how he stares at her as if she were a ghost herself; a dream glinting white in the moonlight. She stands there, tall and straight by his bed, ready to finish her task.

 

He is breathing heavily, eyes wide open and mouth slightly agape. His forehead is beaded with sweat from the nightmare he's had _(swords diving into his eyes, again and again, the never-ending chain of his soldiers turned against him with their sharp blades and faces contorted with hatred)_ and he's trembling under the covers.

 

Natasha sees him, every little detail, and makes her move. “Let me help you,” she whispers silkily, her body sliding onto the mattress beside him. He makes no motion to push her away, so she climbs on top of him and captures his lips with hers.

 

He doesn't react at first, even when she plunges her tongue deep inside his mouth and her hips push roughly against his; he is lifeless (almost), except for his heart beating a frantic tattoo in his chest. She feels like she's dreaming it, and she has no control over the course of action, reality is slipping from her grasp, because _it was not supposed to be like that_. Her kisses grow more aggressive and her grip on his shoulders is surely bruising, but still she digs deeper, hungry for a reaction, any reaction she can get.

 

It's when she bites at his bottom lip that he comes alive and returns her grip with his own, harder and stronger, and his eyes burn a venomous green. He flips her onto her back, lips parting for only a second and she breathes out his name, just like a prayer. It sends electric shocks through his body, and he's hungry, so hungry it's tearing him apart.

 

He pushes and bruises, and bites, and she gives him everything back and more, her nails digging into his back and legs closing around him, knees vice-like on his ribs. He can feel the thorny vines that are curled around her ankles cutting into his skin; the covers are already red with blood.

 

“Loki,” she chants and it's more of a moan than anything else, teeth biting into his shoulder when he slides inside of her; it's been too long, she's not really ready for the sensation when it comes, and she has to bite even harder to keep a scream from escaping her mouth. He is rough, hard, demanding like a king that he is; she remembers (not clearly, because her mind is fogged and bits and pieces of reality and dreams are mixing together before her eyes) the men in her life being always too soft for her liking.

 

(S _he is the Black Widow after all, with a web of lies and deception behind her red smile; there is no truth in her life and it's bruises, and blood, and pain that make her feel alive.)_

 

She is too far gone to turn back, but that's alright because she has nothing left to lose anymore. So she lets him fuck her and lets him know that she wants him just as much a he wants her, and lets herself come violently with her lips against his, (she even lets herself curl around him later – hot body flush against his cold one – lets his lips hover gently at the base of her neck and whisper ' _Natalia_ ', and she lets herself shiver at that).

 

 

-

 

He fucks her against the leaves on the cool ground (she's trembling from the cold that engulfs her from both sides; he sends her an apologetic look and pushes _harder_ ); he fucks her against the tree, a hand on her hip holding her up, and the tree bark is cutting through the skin of her back, and she screams – a shrill sound that echoes in the garden – because he likes that, too.

 

Something is eating on the inside of her heart, when Loki tells her things she never wanted to know, things about Thor, about their father, (they're just bits and pieces, but she's trained enough to be able to put them together and the picture she gets is monstrous and so very not right). He tells her about ruling, and his people, about how much he really cares for their well-being, and she – partly – believes him. (He doesn't tell her about loneliness, or about his nightmares, because she knows. There's no need.)

 

He threads his fingers through her hair and his breath quiets. He's calmer now, and his eyes are vibrant, like they used to be (long ago). They both know it's fleeting though, but neither says a word.

 

“I'll keep him alive,” he says one day, and he means Bruce, which makes her smile truly, for once. “I'm not going to punish the innocents for his crimes. We will find another way.”

 

She's happy, or as close to happy as she can get, and when she prays at night her eyes are dry and bright.

 

 

-

 

 

_Like a sandcastle blown by the wind, everything crushes before her eyes. It's falling, everywhere she looks, and she wants to cry from happiness, wants to get dirty with blood, wants to throw her hands in the air and scream at the top of her lungs. (She also wants to cry, she doesn't understand why.)_

 

 

-

 

 

It's an instinct that pushes her towards the palace, and at some point she picks up her pace and starts running towards the grand hallway; it's a blur of colors and sounds but she keeps going anyway, the vines marking her path.

 

She hears her name – is it her name really? – “Tasha,” someone calls, and she opens her mouth only to shut it again in the presence of nothingness. Her mind must be playing tricks on her yet again.

 

The farther she goes, the instinct grows more restless, and she hears everything (from the beat of her heart to the sound of blood dripping on the floor), her body alert and ready to lunge. She bites her lips to stop herself from calling out for the person who knows _her real name._

 

And then she turns and finds herself looking into a pair of dark eyes; “Matt,” escaping her lips like a breath, and strong arms wrap themselves around her waist and pull her close, (but still not close enough for her to _believe_ , not yet).

 

His hand touches her cheek gently, then moves into her hair, to her neck, shoulder, the length of her arm. “Are you alright?” he asks, unseeing eyes focused on the space next to her ear. Natasha chokes, (there is some dizziness overwhelming her senses and she's not sure if she's able to stand straight without his help), and curls her fingers into his red uniform. He smells the same, and it feels like falling in love all over again.

 

She clings to him so tightly she's not sure where he ends and she begins, but it's alright, because it's him, and he's there, and he's fine.

 

Matt understands, without speaking or actual seeing, and whispers into her ear: “The others are on their way.”

 

 

-

 

 

Natasha is not very good at believing, but they _do_ come indeed, in all their battered hero glory. Around the corner she sees Nick Fury with a bazooka thrown across his shoulder, followed by Peter Parker and a group of mutants she's never seen before. They're running, leaving a trail of dead guards behind, blood and dirt scattering the floor.

 

They stop before her, and Fury nods; coldblooded and formidable as if nothing has changed. “Agent Romanoff,” he says, “I hope you're in a state to cooperate.”

 

It's the instinct that takes over, as she steps out of Matt's arms and straightens up, her body ready to pounce. “Yes sir.”

 

“Good.”

 

He sends some of the mutants in different directions, (there is a girl who walks through walls and a boy who controls fire, but she would have been impressed if she didn't know that Loki could do the same and more; the power of the tesseract providing him with almost endless power – and actually this is the point at which she realizes what she has to do).

 

“The tesseract, sir,” she says, calm and professional, the Black Widow, “it has to be destroyed.”

 

It's Maria Hill who joins them in a flash and Natasha's heart soars for her friend. They exchange looks – just a quick glance to make sure another is alright – then turn back to Fury. “Thor will be landing in a matter of minutes,” Maria informs them. Her hair is braided, and longer, reaching just below her shoulders.

 

“Daredevil, Parker, I want you in the west wing where we know the bastard resides,” Fury commands, his eyes slipping from face to face. “Cyclops, Grey, you operate according to the plan.” Then he turns to Natasha, “As for you, Romanoff, I need you to find the tesseract for me.”

 

She opens her mouth to oppose, but he gives her no chance. “We have the power to destroy it, but first we need to _find_ it.”

 

“What about Banner?” She feels the adrenaline rush in her veins, hot blood pumping in her ears like a tribal drum. Her body is yearning, _begging_ for a fight. “He's captured somewhere in here.”

 

Fury smiles, and it's sharp like a knife. “That's what Barton's at right now.”

 

 

-

 

 

It must be somewhere below, she's sure of it, but the palace is so huge it may take hours before she finds the way; and suddenly Natasha has no time to waste. They are running – Fury and Hill on her heels – and she's trying to remember something, anything that would bring her closer, (she can't though, or maybe there's just some part of her that simply _doesn't want_ to).

 

The only thing she knows is that Loki's not here.

 

(But he's coming; she can tell it by the goosebumps rising on her skin.)

 

(It's funny, because the more she thinks about him, the closer she gets to the cube; its blue brightness mixing in her mind with the green of his eyes and it's calling for her, as if it were she who were its master.)

 

And somehow, she finds the way.

 

 

-

 

 

The weapon that destroys the tesseract is in fact a girl, a small one, with a white streak running through her hair. She approaches the cube somewhat shyly, its glow painting blue shadows on her face; she takes off her glove and with her bare hand touches the bright surface.

 

The power pours out of the tesseract easily and the girl takes it all, her eyes closed and lips trembling ever-so-slightly. Natasha knows that it's too much for such a small body to take, but no one else seems to acknowledge the fact, so she stands there silently watching the blue glow dissipate. Only when the brightness of the tesseract dies down, does the girl fall to her knees; when she opens her eyes, they burn blue.

 

“Good job, Rogue,” says Fury. The room is tense with anticipation and poorly restrained enthusiasm. “Thank you for your help. Now let's get the bastard, shall we?”

 

She doesn't bother telling them he's not there, because firstly, they would ask how exactly she came to know this, and secondly, because in that very moment she senses him coming back.

 

_(The vines are gone.)_

 

 

-

 

 

She comes to him alone, because it was always meant to be her to pull the trigger. (Maria's gun fits in her hand perfectly; the feel of cool, smooth steel is strangely comforting on her skin). She can hear her heartbeat in her ears. She may be tired, or restless, but she's not _scared_.

 

Loki is standing on the stairs with his hand on the banister, holding himself up with great strain. He looks like he's dying already; she can see it in his bloodied, hollowed eyes, in his white lips, in his shallow breath. The power that kept him alive has been cut off, and while through all these years they've been one – he was pouring himself into the tesseract just as it was pouring itself into him – now with it gone, so is he.

 

“Natasha,” he croaks and she moves closer, gun pointed at his heart.

 

She doesn't say anything, not even when the barrel of the gun hits his chest and Loki fall to his knees on the stairs.

 

His lips are cold and bloodless, stark white. “Go on, do it,” he says, and this time it is an order.

 

“Kill me,” he commands, and she tries, she really does, but her fingers don't seem to be working anymore. The gun slips from her hands and falls on the step next to her knees, and she draws a shaky breath that seems to echo in the room.

 

In his eyes she sees disappointment.

 

“I can't.” Tears gather in the corners of her eyes, and he can see them now, for the very first time since her capture. She's promised herself she would never cry in front of him, never let him see her broken. But here she is, kneeling by his side, wet streaks on her cheeks;

 

pathetic,

 

 _weak_.

 

She can feel his fingers sliding under her chin and titling her head up to meet her eyes. She doesn't make the move to wipe them, merely stares blankly at his face, her own hands hanging motionlessly by her sides.

 

“I don't wish you to see this,” he whispers hoarsely, the sound of footsteps nearing louder with every second. It's instinct, nothing more (it must be), when she moves her hand to grasp his as he starts choking, blood welling in his throat. It is then that Thor barges in, with a scream on his lips.

 

“He is not to be hurt,” and he pushes Natasha aside, sweeping his brother into his arms. He lies there limply, with eyes closed and blood bubbling in the corners of his lips.

 

(The rest of the team comes soon enough, but with her vision blurred Natasha can't make out the faces.)

 

“He will see the justice of Asgard,” comes the booming voice of Thor. No one says a word.

 

 

-

 

 

They have the Earth to save, to restore the balance and fix the mess Loki's created, the overwhelming list of their duties lengthening by every second, but she takes a moment – just a few minutes really – to curl her arms around Clint and bury her face in the crook of his neck; her best friend is alive, and she doesn't want to let him go, ever again.

 

“We thought we've lost you,” he says into her hair, his grip around her waist steely strong. “I even teamed up with Murdock for the rescue party, so please do appreciate that.”

 

Speaking of Matt, his presence is also something she's yearning for desperately, but Fury is not very good at waiting, so for the time being she puts that on hold.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, and everyone's attention fixes instantly on him. “What little of us is left, I'm afraid to break it to you that the order of the world is once again in our hands. The sooner we start, the better.”

 

They do, putting piece after piece together, filling the holes, joining the lost parts.

 

 

-

 

 

_(Drop by drop the venom falls on his face and burns its way through his skin and bones like liquid fire;_

 

_he marvels at the color of his blood, dripping, dripping--;_

 

_the chains are so blessedly cold he sometimes wants to cry from solace, but there doesn't seem to be a single drop of water left in his body, only flames, so very red;_

 

_he used to know something red, once;)_

 

 

-

 

 

It's only when she lies in bed with Matt's body curled around her in a reassuring grip, she is able to close her eyes and relax. She's so tired all the time, so busy and always running, she sometimes thinks she's forgotten how it feels to stop. She has so little time, and so much to do (so much to fix, so much to heal).

 

And she lies there listening to Matt's steady breathing, the beat of his heart, revels in the warmth his body gives off, and she forgets about pain, and bruises, and loneliness;

 

(she's known someone lonely, once);

 

and she sleeps, with no nightmares.

 

 


End file.
